


so sealed within their fate that they hide deep within their mind

by without_a_license



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: AU Laurens lives, Angst, Epistolary, Fluff, Melodrama, Multi, Polyamory Negotiations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 10:49:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5087818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/without_a_license/pseuds/without_a_license
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Laurens appears on Angelica Schuyler Church's doorstep, several days after a letter from Hamilton lamenting his death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	so sealed within their fate that they hide deep within their mind

**Author's Note:**

> Title and key quote from "A Royal Affair" starring Mads Mikkelsen, aka the most romantic movie about infidelity ever. Historical accuracy has been handwaved, to my shame. Also I'm sorry they use the heart as a metaphor so much. It just kept happening and I allowed it. 
> 
> I really like this one, hope you do too. Comments, criticism, etc. welcome.

A young man knocks on the door of a lovely house in a fashionable district of London. He is not quite so young as he once was, nor quite so free, and yet he knocks. An elegant lady with a dimple in her cheek answers. 

“Ah, excuse me, madame, I’m looking for Mrs. Angelica Church?” 

He fumbles with his hands momentarily as though reaching for a letter of introduction, but no letter appears. (He has none to produce.) 

The woman tilts her fabulously coiffed head and studies him with large gray eyes that see far too much. She sees a soldier, worn out from the war, with a weight on him as though he has not yet stopped fighting. She sees that his clothes, though fine, are showing signs of wear, and his face, though handsome, is bruised with stubble and exhaustion. The face recalls to her a miniature, shown once to her by her dear brother, and she fits the pieces into place.

“I am she, sir. And you…you cannot be…not Hamilton’s Laurens?” 

He gasps and staggers backward across the porch, and she steps aside quickly to usher him into the house. It would not do to make a scene. She leads him back into the parlor as he grapples with her knowledge of him. 

“Madame, how on God’s earth did you know me? I am meant to be dead!” 

She gives him a plainly judging look as she seats him on the divan. 

“And yet you appear very much alive, sir. My brother has written me lately, lamenting your death. He showed me your portrait once, naming you as his dearest friend in the world, and I recalled your face when I read his letter. Would you like to read it while I brew the tea?” 

Again he is left speechless, opening and closing his hands uselessly against the upholstery. It appears death has rather affected the poor man’s health. Mrs. Church hands him the letter anyway and removes herself to the kitchen while he reads. 

* * *

_My dearest Angelica,_

_Sister, I cannot describe to you the depth of my pain at this moment. Please forgive me if my words seem disjointed or out of place. I cannot feel my fingers. My heart has left my chest and I am unable to go on without it._

_John Laurens is dead._

_In my lifetime, I have known many men. Some I have admired for their wise words, or respected for their honor and accomplishments. I have been grateful to many and indebted to a few. Some have charmed me with their quick wit or gay laughter. I have been lucky to count several among my dear friends._

_But through it all, I have only ever loved one man, a man who is now dead._

_Forgive me the smeared ink. Every time I think I have got a hold of myself, I recall again the shape of his face, or the sound of his voice, and I am again reduced to unmanly weeping._

_I have shut myself away from Betsey and the children. I do not wish them to see me this way. They do not know me this way._

_But you, my dearest Angelica, you know my sin and my weakness. To you, across the ocean, I will allow myself to be seen as I am now: broken, blind with grief, unable to see how I may ever be made whole again._

_Betsey thinks me a fine man, but if she had ever had the chance to know Laurens, she would know that I am a coward next to him. Never in the world has there been a man so brave and dear, willing to risk everything that he has in the world for a people that are not his own. I must persist ever more ardently in my Abolition work, now that I cannot rely on his help. His quill moved not so quick as my own, but his steadfast morality and guiding hand was always the impetus behind our joint work. I have never yet met his equal._

_I write these things, and even as I write them they are half a lie. Laurens was brave, and good, and true, but that is not why I loved him. I loved him for the shape of his hands on my shoulders, pulling me back from a fight, holding me however briefly against the warmth of him on those cold New England nights. Ah!--He was the sun and I was caught in his orbit._

_I loved him for the lines in his face when he smiled, for the sharp points of his teeth gleaming between his lips. I loved him particularly for the rumble of his laughter, for the small peculiarities of his walk, his scent, his voice—the things that made me know him immediately upon entering a room full of soldiers. Oh Angelica, I would recognize him blindfolded._

_My dear sister, you must burn this letter upon receiving it. If my enemies ever caught hold of it, imagine the scandal!—_

_And yet I am not sorry. One meets so few people like Laurens in a lifetime—to me he is as dear as Betsey or yourself—and when I encounter people such as these, I am helpless but to love them with all the ardor in my poor sinner’s heart._

_I will close by telling you that I miss you as desperately as always, and Betsey is much the same. We often remark to each other how much brighter our home would be with you in it. I shall not enclose a note from her this time, but I shall write a proper letter perhaps in two or three days when I have got my thoughts together again. The little Baron is growing by the day, and I have instructed him to stop altogether and await your return, so you may not miss a day of him as he is now. Please implore Church to return you to us post haste, as America will soon fall to pieces in your absence._

_Yours most affectionately,_

_Alexander Hamilton_

* * *  
Mrs. Church returns with a silver tea tray and begins to serve her guest as he sits open-mouthed, blinking back tears and rather wrinkling her letter. He attempts to lift his teacup, finds that his hands are trembling terribly, and wisely sets it down again. His voice is hoarse.

“Why… Madame, what can you mean by showing me this?” 

She sits across from him and folds her ankles daintily beneath the layers of her gown. 

“Sir, you showed up at my doorstep looking as though you had not a soul in the world to care for you, and I happened to be in possession of a letter from your dearest friend, concerning yourself. How fortuitous! I would be remiss in my duties toward both Hamilton and yourself if I did not share it with you. May I ask why you have allowed my brother to think you dead?” 

She raises her eyebrows and sips her tea. Clearly she considers his death an offense against her family, and thus demands an explanation. 

He clears his throat and looks down at his knees. 

“I did not intend it this way.” 

He pauses for a long moment, until she makes a small noise in her throat, indicating that he should continue. He looks up briefly.

“Madame. I intended to die in battle, and I very nearly succeeded. So nearly, in fact, that when I awoke I found that reports of my death had already been sent out. So you see, I did not fabricate my own death, I merely…failed to correct what had already been written.” 

“And now, sir? Why did you board a ship to England, the country which you so recently fought against, rather than returning to your family and friends?” 

He smiles, and laughs slightly, and she thinks _Oh. So_ that’s _why Hamilton loves him._

“You do not prevaricate, do you, Madame? I can see why Hamilton adores you so.” 

She smiles with her eyes and allows her dimple to show, accepting the compliment but not letting him off the hook. He clears his throat and continues.

“Well. You already know…so much about me. And I am dead, so. I may as well tell you, Mrs. Church. Perhaps you will understand. If I were to go to Hamilton…he overstates my virtue. I am…well. 

“There is a certain…intimacy, in friendship, that can be…acceptable, among soldiers. The same style of friendship would be quite inappropriate between married men in peacetime. I know this, and yet…if I were to go to Hamilton now, it would be just the same. You see how he is unable to rule his passions concerning me, and I am even worse when it comes to him! I would draw him into my own improprieties, to the detriment of your sister and his burgeoning career. He will be a great man. I will not…I will not ruin his life for the sake of my schoolboy crush. I could not do that to him.” 

His voice rises through his speech, and then falls again as he slumps, his hands in his lap, the picture of a heartbroken man. The pain in his eyes moves Angelica to pity, and she rounds the table to kneel by his side and place her hand on his arm. 

“Oh Mr. Laurens, I cannot bear to see you do this to yourself, and to our Hamilton. I should not tell you this, but, well…you are a dead man. And perhaps you will understand.”

He looks at her with a ray of hope in his hazel eyes. Her heart is moved again for him, and she feels as though she already loves him by proxy. 

“You see, Eliza thinks Hamilton the most wonderful man in the world. And because of this, she thinks everyone else ought to love him just as she does. When she comes across someone who _does_ love him, truly, such as yourself, or… _my_ self, her dear generous heart does not turn to jealousy! Instead she delights in it, soaking up our love for him just as a proud father soaks up the praise that a teacher showers upon his son. 

“Perhaps this way of thinking is more common in Europe than in the colonies, but I can assure you that I know my sister’s heart as though it were my own, and she would never begrudge you your love of Hamilton, or him his love of you.” 

Mr. Laurens’ face opens up like a flower exposed to the sunlight, and he seems now to be ten years younger and even more handsome. 

“But Mrs. Church…surely your sister cannot allow…that is, I am afraid that even if she tolerated our friendship, my greedy heart would soon overreach its place and take what ought to be left alone.” 

Mrs. Church smiles at him indulgently and pats his arm. 

“My dear Mr. Laurens, do you intend to steal Hamilton away from his wife and cause him to leave their children destitute?” 

His eyes widen in shock.

“My god, no! I would never!” 

Her smile grows wider.

“Or perhaps you plan to publish details of your _intimate_ friendship with Hamilton in the papers, causing him to be imprisoned and Eliza to live the remainder of her life in shame and misery?” 

He sits upright and grasps her hand. 

“Of course not! I would die before I would allow such a thing to happen!” 

She nods primly. 

“Then I do not think you shall overreach your place after all. You see, there are some things that belong to Eliza alone. Her place in Hamilton’s home, with their children. Her place in the story of his life, and their future together. Their growing old together. You must not attempt to steal these things from her, or I shall be very cross and find myself wishing you had died after all.” 

She fixes him with a stern gaze and he is suitably cowed. Then her lovely face changes, becomes flirtatious. 

“But there are other things that _can_ be shared, even within a marriage. Love, for instance… or Hamilton’s hands…his _mouth…_ ”

“Mrs. Church!” Laurens yelps, scandalized. 

She laughs out loud, a beautiful full-hearted thing. 

“Oh Mr. Laurens, I think after all this, you can call me Sister Angelica. Remember, I would not tell you all these things…but you are still a dead man, and besides…I know from experience.” 

She winks, and Laurens turns red from his collar to the tips of his ears.  
He leaves her home late that afternoon, with a heart as light as a feather, and a letter in his pocket which he has been instructed to hand-deliver to Alexander Hamilton by the fastest means possible.


End file.
